


If Only

by skywalkersamidala



Category: I Medici | Medici: Masters of Florence (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, but not canon divergent enough [sobs], very slightly canon divergent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-16
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-12-17 17:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21058604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skywalkersamidala/pseuds/skywalkersamidala
Summary: Francesco would always be his biggest regret, Lorenzo knew that. But…perhaps he could do one last thing to lighten the burden of that regret, just a little.





	If Only

“Lorenzo, please do not do anything you will later regret,” Sandro said softly.

It was far too late for that, Lorenzo thought as he turned to look at Francesco. Or rather, it was not what he had done that he regretted, but what he had failed to do.

_I should have done more._

Francesco was looking steadily back at him. There was no hatred in his eyes. No pleading either, no sign that he wanted mercy from Lorenzo. There was simply…nothing. Those beautiful eyes that had, for much too short a time, been filled with love and warmth, now they were empty and hollow, devoid of any emotion. Except perhaps a hint of regret, unless that was just Lorenzo subconsciously seeking to see his own feelings reflected back at him.

_I should have done more._

If only he’d tried harder to keep Francesco close. If only he hadn’t let him go that night, when their bond went up in flames along with the debts of the Pazzi bank. If only he hadn’t been such a coward.

_I should have done more._

Francesco would always be his biggest regret, Lorenzo knew that. But…perhaps he could do one last thing to lighten the burden of that regret, just a little.

“Hang Salviati,” he repeated, nodding at the guards. “Go.”

“And Pazzi?” the one standing behind Francesco asked.

“I’ll deal with him myself,” Lorenzo said. “Leave us. All of you.”

He tuned out Salviati’s continued protests as he was dragged out of the room, hardly noticed Montesecco’s more dignified exit, ignored Sandro’s eyes on him as he lingered in the doorway and gave him one last glance before leaving and shutting the door behind him. Lorenzo was looking at Francesco, and in that moment, for him no one else existed.

So it had always been.

Once they were alone, there was a long silence. Francesco maintained eye contact but didn’t say a word, clearly waiting for Lorenzo to speak first.

Eventually he did. “I should have told you,” he said. “I should have told you every day. Every single day. If you’d known, perhaps…perhaps we wouldn’t be here. Or perhaps it’s vanity on my part to expect that it would have made any difference.”

Francesco remained silent for a few moments before deigning to ask, “Should have told me what?”

“You were right, you know, when you said we could never be friends. Because I never saw you as a friend,” Lorenzo said. “I never saw you as_ only _a friend. You were always more. More, even, than the brother Giuliano thought you were to me. I used to fancy myself a poet, but what I felt for you…it defied words. Not even ‘love’ was a big enough one.”

He didn’t entirely know what reaction he was hoping to get out of Francesco with this confession. It was far too late for it to matter if he reciprocated his feelings; Lorenzo didn’t think he even _wanted _him to reciprocate, not anymore, not after what he’d done. Maybe he was hoping that the opposite would happen, that Francesco would laugh in his face, mock him, spit at his feet in disgust, so that way it would be easier for Lorenzo to do what had to be done.

But neither reaction occurred. Francesco just kept looking at him, terribly silent, frustratingly blank. Lorenzo was the first to break eye contact, busying himself by retrieving the dagger he’d stabbed into the desk. He stared down at it, twirling it absently in his hands.

Then Lorenzo took a few steps forward until he was right in front of Francesco, and he knelt down so that they were face-to-face, eye-to-eye. Francesco didn’t look away. “You know I can’t allow you to live,” Lorenzo said.

“I know.”

“But I can at least show you more mercy than you showed Giuliano,” Lorenzo said cuttingly, though Francesco didn’t even flinch. “I can spare you the humiliation of a public death. For the sake of how I once felt.”

Francesco nodded once in acknowledgment of his words, but didn’t thank him for his mercy, as if even now he couldn’t bring himself to swallow his pride. It was one of the things Lorenzo had always admired about him, his pride, even as often as it had frustrated him. He’d always known Francesco was a man who would face death calmly with his head held high.

Though he hadn’t ever imagined that Francesco’s death would be coming from his own hand.

“Just tell me one thing,” Lorenzo said. “If you had known, would it have made a difference?”

Francesco moved his eyes slightly to Lorenzo’s left, looking just past him. “Does it matter now?” he said.

Lorenzo sighed and fiddled with the dagger. “I suppose it’s always been like this with the two of us,” he said. “Never saying how we truly feel, because we think it’s too late and doesn’t matter, until eventually it really does become too late. Letting the outside world tear us apart, telling ourselves we’ll have the opportunity to fix things between us eventually. But that opportunity never comes, because we never sought it out. If only…if only we’d chosen each other when it mattered. When we still could.”

Francesco swallowed thickly, and Lorenzo saw it at last. A tear glistening on his cheek.

Lorenzo lifted the dagger and moved it around behind Francesco to slice through the rope binding his wrists together. Then he pressed the tip against Francesco’s stomach. Francesco still looked astonishingly calm, though he was betrayed by the sound of his breath quickening.

“Hold onto me,” Lorenzo said.

At first he thought Francesco wasn’t going to, but then he slowly lifted his hands and placed them on Lorenzo’s shoulders, bracing himself for the blow. Lorenzo moved his free hand up to grip the back of Francesco’s neck, and at last Francesco met his eyes properly again.

“If only,” he said in a whisper so soft it was nearly inaudible.

“If only,” Lorenzo repeated.

He leaned forward slightly so that his forehead was resting against Francesco’s. He could feel his breath on his lips, faster than ever, like he was trying to get as many in before the end as he could.

Lorenzo couldn’t help it; hating himself, consumed by guilt and regret and so many other painful emotions, he pressed his lips against Francesco’s, kissing him for the first and last time. _Forgive me, Giuliano, _he thought. _I promise I’ll avenge you, please forgive me this one moment of weakness._

But then, Giuliano had understood this. All too well, he had understood how it felt to love someone he shouldn’t. A love that only brought destruction to those involved. Maybe Lorenzo was just trying to absolve himself, but he believed that if Giuliano was watching him right now from heaven, he understood and forgave him. Maybe even pitied him, because Giuliano’s love, at least, had been for an angel, whereas Lorenzo had given his heart to a demon.

Francesco inhaled in surprise, but after a minute, he started kissing him back. Perhaps, then, it _would _have made a difference if Lorenzo had told him sooner. Lorenzo closed his eyes, allowing himself to get lost in the moment, in the warmth of Francesco’s lips, in the softness of his hair tangled in Lorenzo’s fingers.

And then he thrust the dagger forward.

Francesco let out a rattling gasp into Lorenzo’s mouth. Lorenzo broke the kiss and opened his eyes to see that Francesco’s were wide and full of agony, several more tears running down his face, though whether they were due to emotion or physical pain, Lorenzo didn’t know.

Lorenzo could feel his blood soaking his hand, and he pulled the dagger out and tossed it aside. He should stand and walk out of the room, abandon Francesco here to bleed out…but even Giuliano had had the mercy of dying surrounded by his loved ones. So Lorenzo took Francesco into his arms, holding him close against him as he choked and gurgled, as his entire body shook, as his blood stained Lorenzo’s tunic, mixing with Giuliano’s and Nori’s and Lorenzo’s own.

Lorenzo was crying, whether for Francesco, for Giuliano, for Florence, he didn’t know. Or maybe it was for himself, for the innocence he’d lost today, all the horrors he’d seen, the terrible decisions he’d been forced to make. For the loss of that dream he’d once held so dear of Medici and Pazzi united, not only in banking and politics, but on a personal level too.

If Lorenzo closed his eyes he could still see it. Piero a few years older, trotting around after Francesco wherever he went and hanging on his every word, making Lorenzo joke that he loved his godfather more than his father, but he wouldn’t actually mind, because it would warm his heart beyond words to see his son have such a close relationship with the man he loved. Giuliano would be jealous that Francesco was Piero’s clear favorite, but he wouldn’t have to be jealous for long because he would be the godfather of Lorenzo’s second child, who would adore him and take after him in causing mischief and bringing light and laughter wherever he went.

He could see Francesco’s shy smile as he asked Lorenzo to be the godfather of his and Novella’s first child, could even see the child itself in his mind, a little daughter with Francesco’s distinct narrow eyes and his rare but brilliant smile, or maybe a son with his brown curls and aquiline nose. Lorenzo would dote on Francesco’s children as much as his own and vice versa, and they would spend so much time in each other’s homes that it would be as if there was only one home, one family which they all shared.

And Lorenzo would love Francesco with all his heart and be loved just as much in return. He would fall asleep in Francesco’s arms and wake up in them too, he would kiss him in deserted alleyways and dark corners of Palazzo Medici when no one was looking. Clarice and Novella would understand, they would understand that their husbands’ love for each other didn’t diminish their love and respect for them, and all four of them would be the closest of friends, spending countless evenings dining together and sharing laughter and gossip and wine and perhaps even a bed.

The rest of the family wouldn’t know what was between Lorenzo and Francesco, and yet they would _know, _they would sense it without being told, and they wouldn’t mind, they would just be glad that Francesco had come home to them at last and the Medici-Pazzi rivalry was well and truly dead. Giuliano would laugh about it and tease Lorenzo with a knowing look in his eye, saying how silly he’d been to have thought Lorenzo loved Francesco like a _brother _and was replacing him, and Lorenzo would laugh too and assure him that no one could ever replace him, not in a thousand years.

If only.

If only.

If only.

Lorenzo realized he was saying it out loud. “If only, if only, if only,” he was repeating over and over again as he held Francesco tight and felt his body becoming stiller and stiller, each spasm further and further apart, his chest rising and falling with slower and slower breaths.

“Cold,” Francesco whispered, his voice weak and cracking and barely intelligible.

Lorenzo pressed his cheek against his and stroked his hair, because for a moment he forgot that this was his brother’s murderer, all he knew was that this was someone he loved and he didn’t want him to be cold and scared and alone as he was dying. “It will be over soon,” he said.

Looking as if it was costing him a great amount of effort, Francesco pulled back just enough that he could look into Lorenzo’s eyes. “Lorenzo,” he said. “I wish…I wish…I-I wish…”

“I know,” Lorenzo said to save him the effort of speaking. “I know. Me too.”

And Francesco…Francesco smiled. One last time, Lorenzo got to see that smile, as beautiful as he remembered despite the blood dribbling out of Francesco’s mouth. Lorenzo smiled back, more on instinct than because he really felt like smiling.

Francesco slumped forward into Lorenzo’s chest and Lorenzo caught him and held him steady, rubbing his back as his body shuddered with a few last ragged breaths. And then stopped moving altogether.

And Lorenzo wept. He wept for what could have been, if only…if only. If only so many things were different. If only they were in a different life, because in this one, perhaps, this was the only way it could ever have ended between them.

He wept, and then he composed himself and shoved all emotions but righteous anger into a little box in his mind and locked them up, and he gently lowered Francesco’s body to the floor, and he got to his feet and left the room. Jacopo Pazzi was not getting out of this city alive.


End file.
